One More Day
by Theeph
Summary: Draco comes to terms with his anger towards his Father and finally gets his revenge. Set after the books.
1. Prologue 2:34 am Saturday

**Prologue**  
_2:34 AM Saturday_

His face was red, then pale white. Repeatedly changing colours with the intermittant lights. His arms were restricted some how, and he could feel the hands of others playing over them. His blonde hair hung damp and darkened across his forehead and he was lying down, yet also moving. So much red and so much white.

He could hear the sound of small wheels racing over a rough surface and people shouting incoherently. The night sky enveloped his field of vision with the moon's pale harlequin grin mirroring his own. He felt suprisingly good, all things being considered. The vibrations of the stretcher were irritating though and lights were becoming brighter, more insistant.

His vision blurred for a moment, and the sounds seemed to recede further into the distance, but when sensation returned he saw a tall, imposing figure standing over his stretcher, which seemed to have stopped. His grin widened as he looked at the inscrutable face of the other. He attempted to push himself into a sitting position but his palms kept slipping in the warm, viscous blood. His fists bunched white sheets into clumps which slowly turned crimson, yet still no purchase. He relented but his smile remained wide.

**'Father...'** Draco managed, before everything dimmed again and he surrendered himself to unconsiousness.


	2. 7:59 am Saturday

_7:59 AM Friday_

The bright white light shone through the glass of Draco Malfoy's window. A tree branch outside cast a moving shadow over his face as it swayed lightly in the wind. His eyelids fluttered lightly, and his eyeballs beneath moved to focus on things unseen. Then suddenly he was awake. Not alert, as his mind was still dragging itself out of sleep's firm grasp, but undeniably awake. It was the pain he decided. The pain of conciousness.

His eyes flicked open, and took in the sight of his blandly coloured ceiling. Slightly lifting the sheets he was covered in, he removed a small, thin object. He stared at it with a mixture of anger and guilt, before sliding it under his pillow. It wasn't time to face that just yet. His fists collected sheets as he pushed himself to a sitting position, and he winced in tiredness. 

He glanced at his clock, and the glowing red digital readout changed from '7:59' to '8:00'. An irritating alarm errupted from the small plastic device, only to be harshly silenced by Draco's clenched fist slamming down on it. He snorted in disgust and fell back into bed.

A form stirred next to him with a rustle and a moan. The woman stretched in what she, no doubt, considered a sultry fashion. He ignored her. Her soft brown hair tumbled over her shoulder as she leant over him and became more aquainted with his chest. Still he ignored her. In a final effort she began to plant little kisses all over him. An expression of irritance washed over his face like a wave, and he threw the sheets off himself, standing up.

**'What's wrong?'** the woman asked, slightly put off. He turned to face her, unconcerned with his nakedness.

**'You can go now,'** he said softly, but with an icy chill to his words. She blinked.

**'I can what?'** she snapped, losing all trace of playfulness.

**'You heard,'** again he spoke in the empty, deadened tone.

**'Just who the hell do you think you...'** she began, rising from the bed, but he cut her off with a look.

**'Last warning. Get the fuck out of my house you trash,'** he hissed, his face communicating far more to her than either the vhemence of his command, or the whiteness of his clenched fist could ever manage. Her face broke. The tears ran, as they always did. She fled.

Draco sighed, and relaxed a little. A distraction had been dispatched without doing something he would regret later, and he had almost forgotten the smiling face on the person in the photo underneath his pillow. Almost.

Even as he stared at the pillow, he knew the eyes were staring at him underneath. Those beautiful, innocent, joy-filled eyes, condemning him with every facit of their existance. He had longed for those eyes to look at him. He had betrayed people for those eyes. He had sold his soul for those eyes. He had died for those eyes.

His fists clenched again, and his breathing became shallow and irregular as he continued to stare at the pillow. He loved those eyes, but hated them too. So much hatred he held for them. When he saw them he felt like trash. He felt dirty. They had dominated him, torn at his mind and heart, and now they owned him for all eternity.

His stomach revolted, as it always did. He fled. He listened in a rather detached way as he heard the scant contents of his stomach hitting the water in his toilet. After a while the sound was punctuated by the brief, irregular dripping sounds of his tears. He frantically snatched at the tatters of his dignity, but failed miserably to stop himself from breaking into a full sob. He fell back onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor and wept in hopelessness. He disgusted himself.

His eyes blankly tracked the tiny bubbles as they spun around the black surface of his coffee. He took a sip, and registered the hot, bitter sensation on his tongue, and felt it warm him. He was feeling a little better. Draco found it always helped to get a bit of perspective on his own troubles, and a cup of coffee was as good a starting place as any. It was better than getting on his knees and praying about them, and is sure as hell beat facing them. He caught himself beginning to stare off into space again, and glanced down at his cup. The bubbles had stopped moving, and now clung to the side of the cup. It was time to get moving.

Draco tossed the remainder of the coffee into the sink, and cursed as the liquid splashed up, staining the walls. The white porcelain cup was placed on the table and exchanged for a tie that was lying across the back of a chair. Draco buttoned the collar of his white shirt as he strode away from his house and walked down the uneven footpath. That was something he could never get over about this city: the footpaths were always uneven and dangerous. If he thought about it enough, the concrete surface reminded him of life, in that it seemed to be a smooth, flowing path that was going somewhere, but in reality was only a collection of uneven segments that were rather irritating to experience. His foot caught on one of the stones and he stumbled momentarily. A laugh of genuine mirth escaped him, and he thought _serves me right_.

Draco continued his walk. He was fortunate in that he lived only a short distance from the place he worked and didn't need to worry about transportation. It seemed a bit too oppurtune that a house near the dismal supermarket job he held would become available for rent just when he was in the market, for a ridiculously cheap price. Still, he didn't really want to visit those suspicions. The only person he knew who had that sort of power, and an interest in him was his... was Lucius. He suprised himself by almost calling him _father_. He had sworn never to call him that again. Not after what had happened. At any rate, Lucius was not someone that he wanted to be indebted to. Growing up, Draco had rather unique advantage to see just how ugly that could get, and it still made him nervous even now, at eighteen.

He left the path and hopped a low, metal fence. He followed a foot-worn path through the grounds of an old building. This was a shortcut he took every morning, but it suddenly occured to him that he didn't even know what the building was. He paused momentarily and gazed up at the depressing visage of the grey brick structure. His eyes skipped over the bright neon grafitti and passed the silvery tracks of snail residue. A large ammount of the building was covered in a deep green mass of ivy, and it drew his eye, for a reason he couldn't determine. 

Draco glanced down at his watch, which read '8:35'. He didn't start for a few minutes and was almost there anyway, so he decided to return his attention to the wall. He stepped closer, his shoes crunching on grass still frozen from the cold night, and looked at an odd shape protruding from the ivy. He couldn't seem to discern what it was, until a soft breeze lifted the ivy leaves slightly. It was a face.

It seemed oddly familiar. Although carved from stone, the man's features were soft, and his eyes upturned. Draco craned his head slightly, and then straightened up. He knew what this place was. Just then a voice called from inside the building, making him realise for the first time that it's doors were open and he was standing in front of them.

**'It's bloody cold, innit? Come on in,'** the gritty male voice called out. Draco blinked in suprise, then entered.

It was indeed warmer inside, and he walked past row after row of wooden benches. He found the owner of the voice, a man in his late thirties with ruffled black hair and three day old stubble who was sitting in the first seat, facing away from Draco and towards the large crucifix in the centre of the back wall. He was wearing a black shirt and tan pants, and was reclining on the bench in a relaxed fashion with his legs wide apart, and his arms resting on the back rest. One of his shoes tapped to an unheard beat, making a barely audible thumping sound on the worn carpet. His body language was rather incongrous with a church decided Draco.

**'I see you cut through here everyday. Why stop now?'** he asked without turning around. Draco frowned.

**'Why sit here every day and watch me?'** he avoided the question, half out of irritation and half because he didn't know how to answer. The man turned around and leaned on one arm, exposing his face to Draco. It wore an infuriating smirk.

He put his hand to his collar, and caught the white band around his neck with his thumb, pulling at it a few times to emphasise it's prescence. Draco's eyebrows raised in disbelief, serving only to extenuate the man's grin. They stood staring at each other for a few minutes, before Draco broke eye contact.

**'Well this has been great, but...'** he began to leave, glancing once more at his watch, but was interrupted by the priest.

**'The name is Vincent. I'm here if you need any help,'** his grin widened, if that were possible. Draco flinched with palpable annoyance.

**'Well, Vincent,'** He paused for sarcastic emphasys on the name, **'the only help I need is in getting to work on time.'**

Vincent noded and made a gesture with his hand to the door. Draco snorted at him and retraced his path to the outside. It was when he stood framed in the door that Vincent called out to him again.

**'How's Hogwarts nowadays? Is that bint Trelawny still predicting tradgeties?'** he asked, his voice maddeningly short of laughter, yet still conversational and untrembling. Draco paused for a fraction of a heart beat before replying.

**'Who? What's Hogwarts? I think you've been sipping that wine,'** Draco responded, turning his head to view the man. Vincent was still smiling, and he shruged.

**'Mabye I have. Run along then,'** he said dismissivley with a flick of his head, as if talking to a child. This earned him a scowl from Draco, who gave out a terse breath which froze in mid-air infront of him, wafting away on the cold breeze. Draco stared at the still seated man for a moment longer, then turned and exited the church.

His feet found their own way to the store, as his mind was far too busy with complicated matters. He knew he had never met Vincent before, but at the same time the man was so impossibly familliar. Still, familliar or no, Vincent had stirred up some memories that Draco would rather leave undisturbed. He had left Hogwarts and all that went with it behind.

He would not turn back to it. Not now. 

His watch changed to read '9:00' as he entered the store.


	3. 11:45 am Friday

_11:45 AM Friday_

Draco organised his mind by focusing on the incessant beeping that sounded from various items flying past the intense red beam. One beep, one thought. Who was Vincent? How did he know Draco was ex-Hogwarts? What did he want? Was he sent by Lucius? If so, what in the hell did Lucius want? Draco didn't know what to think, so he just kept on scanning items.

The people who came through his register didn't notice his preocupation. They themselves were preocupied with their own affairs. Many coins and notes exchanged hands. Many items were bought. Draco regurgitated the usual mantra of greeting a customer and asking, without any interest, how they were. He had a lot of time to think.

Draco establsihed that he had never met Vincent. As to how he knew that Draco wasn't a muggle was beyond his guess. Draco had lived amongst these things for a year and he felt he blended in perfectly. So where did that leave him? He was so confused.

**'Hello?'** said the customer irritably as she leaned in to look at his nametag, **'So, _Harry_, were you planning on scanning these any time soon?'**

The customer, an irritating teenage muggle with a ridiculous outfit and a rosebud tatoo on her lower back, glared at Draco with both annoyance and pleasure at Draco's lapse in attention. Draco repeated the mantra, and started hurling cereal boxes and prepackaged vegetables through the angry red beam. This stupid kid wanted to mess him around. He wanted to pick on Draco Malfoy, did he? Draco absentmindedly reached for a wand that wasn't there, but rembered where he was after a moment.

**'Come on then tiger,'** she taunted him. His eyes narrowed, and he felt the rage that lurked underneath his mask come boiling to the surface. If he was a wizard he would have turned her inside out. He would have force fed her those smug little eyeballs of hers, and made her thank him for it. But he was nothing. Less than nothing. He was, for all intents and purposes: muggle. He might have jumped the counter and slashed her throat. He wanted to. All he'd have to do is reach into his pocket and pull out the small blade with a finger hole in it that he carried. He was caught once without such protection. Never again. However after a moment he calmed and affixed a smug leer to his features. He was Draco Malfoy. He was better than these things. He pulled a microphone from on top of his register.

**'Isle 14, can I have a price check for _"Franklin's Hemarhoid Cream"_, Isle 14 please,'** he said on the public address. The girl turned bright red and looked around as several muggles stopped to look at her. Draco grinned at her as he threw his tie on the piled items and walked away. It was petty he knew, but he felt a little better.

The manager of the store came rushing out to see what the problem was, but Draco slapped his nametag onto the man's chest and gave him precise directions on where he thought a good place to put it would be. Then he turned his back on the job that made him a muggle. A revolting notion that he had never addressed before. It was time to move on. Time for change.

He was going to see Vincent and get to the bottom of things. He wanted to know why after talking to the priest for five minutes he suddenly let insignificant muggle trash make him feel so inadequate. Only two other people in the world made him felt like that. One was Lucius... that was no suprise. The other...

No time to think. He had to keep moving. Step after step. Footpath stone after stone. The London weather mirrored his darkening mood, beggining to rain heavily, and laying the foundations of what might turn out to be the infamous pea-soup fog.  
Draco's eyes were blank. His mind was blank. He felt nothing.

It was better this way. When he was numb he didn't have to feel the emotions that threatened to consume him. He didn't have to feel like he shouldn't be what he was. He just didn't have to feel.

On he walked, towards the church's barely visible exterior which was just emerging from the gloom. It was time.

Draco establsihed that he had never met Vincent. As to how he knew that Draco wasn't a muggle was beyond his guess. Draco had lived amongst these things for a year and he felt he blended in perfectly. So where did that leave him? He was so confused.

**'Hello?'** said the customer irritably as she leaned in to look at his nametag, **'So, Harry, were you planning on scanning these any time soon?'**

The customer, an irritating teenage muggle with a ridiculous outfit and a rosebud tatoo on her lower back, glared at Draco with both annoyance and pleasure at Draco's lapse in attention. Draco repeated the mantra, and started hurling cereal boxes and prepackaged vegetables through the angry red beam. This stupid kid wanted to mess him around. He wanted to pick on Draco Malfoy, did he? Draco absentmindedly reached for a wand that wasn't there, but rembered where he was after a moment.

**'Come on then tiger,'** she taunted him. His eyes narrowed, and he felt the rage that lurked underneath his mask come boiling to the surface. If he was a wizard he would have turned her inside out. He would have force fed her those smug little eyeballs of hers, and made her thank him for it. But he was nothing. Less than nothing. He was, for all intents and purposes: muggle. He might have jumped the counter and slashed her throat. He wanted to. All he'd have to do is reach into his pocket and pull out the small blade with a finger hole in it that he carried. He was caught once without such protection. Never again. However after a moment he calmed and affixed a smug leer to his features. He was Draco Malfoy. He was better than these things. He pulled a microphone from on top of his register.

**'Isle 14, can I have a price check for _Franklin's Hemarhoid Cream_, Isle 14 please,'** he said on the public address. The girl turned bright red and looked around as several muggles stopped to look at her. Draco grinned at her as he threw his tie on the piled items and walked away. It was petty he knew, but he felt a little better.

The manager of the store came rushing out to see what the problem was, but Draco slapped his nametag onto the man's chest and gave him precise directions on where he thought a good place to put it would be. Then he turned his back on the job that made him a muggle. A revolting notion that he had never addressed before. It was time to move on. Time for change.

He was going to see Vincent and get to the bottom of things. He wanted to know why after talking to the priest for five minutes he suddenly let insignificant muggle trash make him feel so inadequate. Only two other people in the world made him felt like that. One was Lucius... that was no suprise. The other...

No time to think. He had to keep moving. Step after step. Footpath stone after stone. The London weather mirrored his darkening mood, beggining to rain heavily, and laying the foundations of what might turn out to be the infamous pea-soup fog. Draco's eyes were blank. His mind was blank. He felt nothing.

It was better this way. When he was numb he didn't have to feel the emotions that threatened to consume him. He didn't have to feel like he shouldn't be what he was. He just didn't have to feel.

On he walked, towards the church's barely visible exterior which was just emerging from the gloom. It was time.

A beam of light split the dark interior of the church in two. The beam widened as the door opened, until Draco stepped inside and closed it again. Vincent raised his head from where he was lying on the bench and flashed his teeth at him before lowering back down and closing his eyes.

Draco snorted in amusement and strode over to him. He sat on the bench behind Vincent and leaned over the other, staring down onto his peaceful face. Vincent's eyes flicked open and he erupted in his insatiable grin.

**'You came back, I see. How abrupt,'** the mild French and colloquial British accents in Vincent's voice battled, the latter winning out as he said, **'I hope you didn't need that job of yours.'**

**'No I...'** Draco began, then cut off as his eyes narrowed, **'How did you know?'**

**'You're here killing time with Vincent, after you were in such a hurry to get to work this morning?'** Vincent asked playfully.

**'I could just be on my break. It's 12:00. That is when I take my breaks,'** Draco countered.

**'You quit. I know because... well, I guess I paid attention in school,'** Vincent smiled at an apparently private joke.

**'Yes. Very mysterious, indeed. So are you going to tell me something worthwhile or am I going to have to go find a new job to quit?'**

**'How true to form Draco,'** Vincent yawned before continuing, **'well I suppose I should tell you my story. Maybe then you'll tell yours.'**

Draco sat down on the hard pew and tried in vain to get comfortable, staring at the place where Vincent's head was, envious of his obvious comfort.

**'Okay then. Where to start?'** Vincent murmured before deciding, **'Let it be me. I was a teacher at Hogwarts, back in the day.'**

**'And here I was thinking their standards had decreased over time,'** Draco snorted, but Vincent waved him to silence.

**'I used to teach Defense against the Dark Arts. I was bloody good at it too,'** Vincent's sun-eclipsing grin shone once more, **'It seems that my true calling was divination. I was a true seer.'**

Draco's eyes widened uncertainly, but he remained silent.

**'I think it might be because until then I had never really cared about anyone. Only about having a job to do and getting it done. But when I saw the great depth of pain... the confusion out there, I knew I couldn't live with my head in the sand any more.  
'So I resigned as a teacher, and went to study under that desiccated coconut Trelawney. I learned what little genuine skill she had to pass on, but at the same time I shielded the extent of my power from her. I think I scared her. I don't blame her. Have you ever heard of Cassandra?'** Vincent asked him.

**'Yeah, it's kinda familiar. Some long dead Greek oracle, yeah?'** Draco said uncertainly, looking around the church for some hint.

**'You won't find her on those walls my friend, but yes, she could see the future like nobody that had come before or since,'** Vincent sighed. **'Her legend has been twisted by muggles who knew no better, but essentially her power granted her concrete knowledge of things to come, the downside being that she couldn't change the future because nobody she told would believe her.'**

**'Then that's no power at all,'** muttered Draco, to which Vincent smiled.

**'I agree with you. Still there is always a compulsion to try change, to help,'** the priest said, with a self-mocking tone, **'I know this so well because the power that lived in Cassandra now lives in me.'**

Draco stared at him incredulously. Vincent rose, and met his stare, and Draco saw for the first time the sorrow that swam beneath the priest's smile.

**'Prove it,'** Draco said skeptically, with an upward jerk of his head. Vincent grinned mischievously.

**'I knew you were going to ask me to do that,'** he laughed. Draco glowered.

**'No you didn't.'**

**'See?'** Vincent clapped his hands together, **'there's your proof.'**

Draco groaned in disgust. 'This is bullshit. I'm leaving now.' He stood.

**'No you're not,'** Vincent retained his childish smile.

**'Yes,'** Draco spat irritably, **'I am,'** and with that, he turned and headed once more for the door. Vincent waited till he was almost gone before he called out.

**'Don't you want to know how this all adds up to being about you and a certain woman?'** He asked. Draco froze.

**'Alright you have my attention,'** Draco said, returning to Vincent, **'but I'm not coming back because you said I would. I'm coming back on my own free will.'**

**'Of course you are,'** Vincent mocked, to which Draco threw up his hands in exasperation and remained silent.

**'So anyway,'** Vincent continued, **'as you kindly pointed out, my power is quite useless. As you may imagine this was a terrible burden to bear during Voldemort's time. Even though I knew about his downfall, I saw the terrible price it would come at. I had to live with not being able to prevent it. Not being able to save them.  
'But after... after his downfall, the respite was unbelievable. I could have kissed that little Harry Potter,'** Vincent smiled at the memory.

Draco, irritated by the name mentioned, and more than a disturbed by the priest's tone, gave him a wary stare. Vincent caught the look and made his most outrageous grin yet, holding up both hands innocently.

**'Hey! Far be it from me to perpetuate stereotypes of the Catholic Church,'** he laughed, **'his father on the other hand...'**

Vincent trailed off, staring lazily at some unknown object behind Draco, who was blinking incredulously.

**'Damn me, I could have watched that ass all day,'** he snorted and then became more serious, **'back on topic. I had some time to collect my thoughts with Voldemort gone. I needed something to focus me. Something that could give me freedom from the guilt. I became a priest, and have spent my days since then helping people as best I may.  
'Long story shorter: you need helping boy,'** he said abruptly. Draco made a face to indicate that he had been waiting for this point in the conversation.

**'A little girly once stole your heart. The girl in the picture,'** Vincent looked into Draco's eyes, **'you once saved her when there was nobody else to do it. You went against everything you had been raised for, everything you once believed in, even your own family, and you did it for her. It took bravery, and I really admire that in you. So did she. Too bad she'd already given her heart to someone else.'**

Draco clamped down on his emotions and his thoughts with expert control. He had practiced. Even so, he still saw the images as clear as if they were unfolding before him. He remembered the way he felt when he saw her and knew he had to do something for her. He remembered the way his Father had looked on him when he banished Draco from their house forever, disowning him. He remembered the glowing, shining eyes she had as she embraced another man, and he remembered how that felt, knowing that he had lost everything for her. But he knew, even now, that it had been worth it, even if she would never turn those eyes to him.  
Folding the memories away into his mind, he looked at Vincent calmly. The priest nodded as if agreeing with Draco.

**'Get over it,'** Vincent said simply.

**'That's your advice?'** Draco asked blandly, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

**'If you don't you'll never be complete again, and I kind of like you, so I wouldn't want that to happen,'** Vincent told him softly. Draco nodded and stood.

**'Well thanks. I'll try to keep that in mind,'** he said cheerfully, and made for the exit once more, **'I feel better after that. Hell, I've been over her for ages anyway.'**

Vincent watched as Draco left the church. He smiled sadly. 

**'No... you haven't.'**

He sat, staring up at the cross for what seemed like hours before he spoke.

**'Can you blame me? I never stopped trying, even after all these years,'** he asked, smiling gently, before resuming his recline on the bench and closing his eyes.


	4. 12:37 am Saturday

_12:37 AM Saturday_

Draco's calloused hand slid over her pale, silky arm softly, lovingly. He moved down her forearm and the two hands melted into a firm grasp. Fingers intertwined, pressing into white sheets. His rhythmic breath was hot on her bare neck. His mouth explored. Tasted. Caressed. He moved inside her, feeling her accommodating response. Hearing her pleasurable moan. Delighting in his ability to make her feel this way. He released her grasp, and moved his hands over her like the sculptor and his _Galatea_. He bit softly into warm, soft skin. 

It had stopped being about his own pleasure long ago. It was all for her. All to make her happy. All so he could just hear her cry his name with that lust filled voice. Just once, to have those sparkling, joy-filled eyes gaze upon him lovingly. To see her eyes glaze over like the heat haze from a fire. He knew he could take her there. He had done it every other time. He needed it.

She moaned more desperately and dug her fingers into his back. He could feel she was about to say it. It was time. Her moans climaxed and she screamed. He didn't see her lips move, but he felt the impression they left. That slow, inexorable stab wound in his chest.

**'Harry,'** she cried.

He knew it was coming. He knew that there wasn't even that small little chance that she would cry his own name. Yet, it still surprised him. It always surprised him.

To his severe disgust, due to his surprise he lost the control he had somehow maintained thus far. He gasped tersely, knowing that the woman underneath him might as well have been in a different room. She didn't love Draco. She loved Harry. He sighed. Who was he kidding? As long as it was her, he didn't really care.

He pushed away from her, to stare into her eyes. She smiled back, and her eyes were kind and loving. However, they were alien. These weren't the same eyes, the same smile. They weren't Hermione's eyes, but the eyes of a muggle he used to work with. The glaze was there but not the intense heat that he craved, only a pathetic facsimile, more akin to a disastrous oil slick on the surface of a dead ocean. A desolate, all absorbing plane of destruction, festooned with the slowly rotting corpses of everything the black sickness had choked. Wet sickly fins and pallid flesh and those horrible, horrible dead eyes. Staring, always staring, always at him. Nothing but death.

And then he realized that the evil wasn't in her eyes. They were just showing his reflection.

Once, long ago, he had held a cat with a broken leg in his arms. The cat had screamed for a while, and that had a definite pain of its own, but the worst thing was when it had finished being loud. When it quieted down, it just stared at him with helpless, questioning eyes. Why is there so much pain? Why does everything have to be this way?

If Draco would have looked in a mirror, those same eyes would be staring back at him. Eyes that were red rimmed and swollen from unshed tears.

He looked down at her. Her eyes were peacefully closed and her head rose and fell with his chest. She was asleep. He paused, and stroked her hair, splaying it out onto himself.

How impossibly disgusting he was. How offensive to be hurt by something that was less than anything. How pathetic.

He continued stroking her sweet-smelling hair, and savored her warmth. He pulled the blanket so it covered her more, because he felt her getting cold, although she seemed to be oblivious as she slept. Although her warmth was physical and couldn't comfort the fierce, enveloping cold inside him, he wanted her, at least, to be warm. He used to find comfort in these things. In the brief interim between his disgust at the levels he had dropped to, and the raging guilt he felt from convincing himself that this trash was the woman he needed, he had actually felt good. Good about himself, good about life, good about being able to fool himself.

Not this time. This time was different. The void inside him had been ripped savagely and was now expanding uncontrollably. He was such a disappointment. He was a useless -thing- that existed to be a sponge for all the bad. He was truly, utterly, and inescapably trash.

Trash. Nothing more. He carefully disentangled himself from the muggle and surrendered the entire blanket to her. She didn't wake.

His eyes swiveled to his bedside table. Nothing. He opened the drawer slowly and removed the razor. Nothing. He pressed the cold metal against his skin. Still nothing. He felt nothing. He looked at his bare arms, and saw the scars from the shallow cuts he sometimes made. They used to help him manage the pain. He now needed more.

He ran the razor down his forearm, without cutting, and reached his wrist. He could already see the blue veins pressing out from his skin, like a baby's mouth begging to be fed. He fancied he could even feel the blood pumping in them through the blade. Another time he would have taken a deep breath, or closed his eyes and allowed himself a few self indulgent tears. He would have tried to talk himself out of it. Now, he didn't need to take a deep breath. He didn't need to cry, even if he could have. He didn't need to hesitate.

The steel dove a majestic, blissful dive through skin and vein and blood. There was pain. Intense pain like he had never felt before. It didn't seem to make sense considering it wasn't really a large wound yet, still the pain was there. If he hadn't acquired a base physical need for that very pain he might have stopped. His heartbeat quickened, and he saw the blood match it's new tempo, welling out of him like an orchestral response to a conductor's _accelerando_.

He turned the blade sideways and cut a long gash down his arm. He felt the hard metal penetrate the easily yielding flesh, and move inside him savagely. He gasped softly, feeling the extreme stimulus of both the pain and the release. The blade withdrew from his skin once more, letting a flow of hot, thick blood drop sluggishly to his chest. He felt it begin to slither sideways off him and onto the white sheets. 

He let the blade fall to his chest, and retrieved the worn photograph. It was partly stained red. That he did regret, but it couldn't be helped now. He saw those sparkling eyes. They no longer looked at him with reproach. No more recriminations. Those eyes looked at him with kindness, and a slightly sad or pitiful gaze. Even though he had betrayed her by pretending those other things were her, even though he had thought the things he had about her, she still forgave him, right at the end. It showed just how incredible she was. 

**'I think...'** Draco murmured, struggling to keep focus on those beautiful, shining eyes, **'I think I loved you Granger.'**

He abandoned trying to look at those eyes, and his hand dropped from his view, closing over the photo. It seemed that a cloud had passed over the moon outside, because the room had dimmed slightly. He closed his eyes, and smiled. Somewhere, on some level of consciousness, he thought he could feel Hermione beside him, drawing closer to him. Comforting him. Whispering into his ear that she loved him too.


	5. 2:34 am Saturday revisited

_2:34 AM Saturday_

The ambulance lights flashed intensely. Alternating Red and White. Paramedics scuttled about a stretcher upon which a young man lay. His cold, naked form was covered in a white hospital blanket, which was rapidly becoming soaked with the blood pulsing out from the suicide wounds on his arms. Draco's blonde hair was damp and darkened with sweat, and hung limply across his forehead.

The stretcher clattered as it raced over uneven paving stones on the path. The medics shouted instructions. Across the road an uncertain nine year old girl watched from behind the skirts of her obliviously staring mother. The sounds of a far off train served as a sublime reminder of how life everywhere else hadn't stopped. Just here, on this quiet street, in front of a gradually forming crowd.

The chief paramedic knew what would happen to Draco. He had it seen before. Seen too many youth suicides. At least they could make the effort for this one. The other kid was beyond anyone's help now. Draco just smiled blissfully, as the moonlight shone down as if only for him. 

A tall figure broke from the crowd of spectators and intercepted the stretcher. The paramedic looked up in horror. 

**'Move! We'll lose him if you don't!'** he shouted at the tall figure. The last thing he remembered thinking was how much this stranger reminded him of the victim, before he joined his colleagues on the ground in a bright green flash.

Lucius strode over to where his son lay, and looked down at him, a mixture of concern and disgust etched on his unyielding features. Draco saw him and the idiotic grin that was on his face widened.

He tried to push himself into a sitting position but slipped in his own blood like a grotesque parody of a child trying to walk.

**'Father,'** Draco gasped, the satisfaction still evident in his wavering voice. He collapsed back onto the stretcher and lost consciousness. Lucius cuffed him harshly across the face until he finally roused again. 

**'You're pathetic. Give me a reason why I should save your useless life?'** Lucius spat with contempt. Draco's eyes widened. 

**'Easy father...'** he said faintly, **'if you don't... you lose control.'**

**'I was right to disown you!'** Lucius' temper flared, but for the first time Draco didn't mind. He was glad.

**'You never owned me father...'** his grin melted rapidly into a brutal snarl and he stared straight into Lucius' eyes, **'but now... I own you from this day on. Think about that.'**

Lucius' wand slipped from his hand and clattered to the concrete path.

Checkmate. Draco, his final strength used up to bring about the victory he had waited eighteen years for, relaxed back into the pillow and closed his eyes. Everything was finally as it should be.


	6. Epilogue 4:00 am Saturday

**Epilogue**  
_4:00 AM Saturday_

Hermione moaned softly as she shifted beneath the blankets. A muscular arm encircled her protectively, and Ron made a quiet, comforting noise in her ear. She settled down momentarily, before blinking and coming awake slowly. Her voice was long in emerging, as she was reluctant to break the wonderful structure of warmth and safety and love that they had built. When she finally did, she was relieved that it was only the silence that was broken.

**'Ron?'** she asked quietly. His arm tightened around her, and his breath made a welcome sensation on the back of her neck.

**'I'm here,'** said Ron, his voice a low murmur.

**'I... I had a dream about Draco,'** Hermione felt Ron tense slightly at the name, and she stroked his forearm reassuringly. Ron and Hermione were indisputably each others' in every way, yet the savage jealous streak still burned inside Ron as strongly as it always did. It had taken Hermione a long time to not take offense to it. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, but more that he didn't consider himself worthy of her, and became threatened easily. She eased back into his chest, and savored the feel of his hard muscles against her bare skin. His insecurities were a lot of the reason she loved him so much.

**'Do you often have dreams about Malfoy after we make love?'** he asked in burgeoning anger, and she giggled softly. She turned in his arms to look into his face with smiling, liquid eyes. He relaxed suddenly, and gave a crooked grin, making her heart beat slightly faster.

**'I was doing it again wasn't I?'** he grinned. Hermione nodded slightly, her lips pressed into an impish grin. An image which Ron carefully burned into his memory. He bent forward and kissed her forehead lightly.

**'Ron, I feel so sorry for him,'** she said, her face assuming a sober expression. His hands move to sift gently through her hair. He felt it tumble over his calloused palms like water over harsh rocks.

**'You shouldn't sweetie. He knew the path he was walking on,'** Ron's voice made Hermione's heart break with the sympathy it contained, regardless of his own feelings.

**'He did a lot for me. I... I don't know. I guess I just want him to be happy.'** she struggled with her own barely formed thoughts. Ron stared intently into her eyes. His face was serious, his gaze penetrating; his usually bright red hair was dark with sweat. He nodded.

**'He may have been a nasty git,'** Ron began, **'but he came through for you when it counted. That must have cost him a lot. For that, he's alright in my book.'**

Hermione smiled slowly, **'Wouldn't it have been great if we had all been friends?'** and closed her eyes, pressing her head once more into Ron's chest. He placed his head on hers, and after a time he closed his eyes too.

**'I love you Hermione,'** he said quietly, as if for the first time. She didn't answer him, and her soft breath felt regular on his chest. She was asleep. Ron smiled a smile of complete contentment, and tightened his grip on her. He would protect her. She would protect him. Everything was finally as it should be.


End file.
